


white noise

by Katbelle



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Brain Damage, Deaf Character, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Reckless Matt Murdock, Sickfic, Temporarily Disabled Character, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 18:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: Matt goes to bed with a splitting headache. He wakes upblind.





	white noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tj_teejay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/gifts).
  * Inspired by [head of feathers, heart of lead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116430) by [Katbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle). 



> Happy holidays, Giftee! I hope you had and are having a great day!

**white noise**

_Where more is meant than meets the ear._  
John Milton

 

It starts with Fisk.

***

In a way, everything always starts with Fisk.

It's a curious thing, that everything always starts with Fisk. The first time around, back when he was still just wearing 'black pyjamas' as Foggy not-so-affectionately nicknamed his first outfit, Fisk was the catalyst for a lot of incidents. He was never the reason Matt started going out, that dubious honour belongs to a man who moved his family out of the city about a year after his vicious beat-down, but he was the reason why Matt's carefully built initial balance went to shit. He was also the one who sent Nobu after him and therefore was indirectly responsible for Foggy finding out. And then for all the subsequent falling outs between them. And, eventually, for their partnership collapsing.

Of course, Matt is the one to blame for that, the Castle case went sideway way before Castle ever came in contact with Fisk. But Fisk _was_ – at least in part – responsible for Frank throwing his case and exploding in court, so he gets the blame for that too. They were so close to winning. They would have, if Frank had kept calm. And then perhaps he and Foggy wouldn't have split.

Who is he lying to, of course they would have. Matt was... not at his best then. If not over the Castle case, they would have parted ways over something else. It was just a matter of time.

And then. Matt was _fine_ being dead. He was perfectly alright with the prospect of dying. Matt Murdock was no more and it suited him fine, no more attachments, no more distractions. But God seems to hate him, for some reason, so his peace was shattered by the news of Fisk getting out. And that led him back to Foggy and Karen. That made him face his future and consider his options, and wonder if he might have been wrong to stay away. If, perhaps, he really was better off _with_ people her cared about.

They've put Fisk away. They've started rebuilding their friendship and the trust and the partnership. Fisk was behind bars once more and they were on their way to where it all went wrong, only better, wiser and stronger. More willing to share, more willing to forgive. This time, it seems, Fisk made them better.

Almost like a full circle.

***

It starts with Fisk.

Or, to be precise, it never _ends_ with Fisk, so here they are now.

***

Matt's never told Foggy and Karen about the hallucinations.

***

Once their initial elation over having once again defeated Fisk evaporated, Foggy, Karen and he were left with all the reasons why their little partnership didn't work out before. Matt's compulsion to lie and his less than brilliant ideas on how to keep his loved ones safe. Foggy and his absolute need to know even when he shouldn't. All the secrets.

"We're Nelson, Murdock & Page now," Foggy said a couple of days after Father Lantom's funeral. The three of them met at their old office – Karen's idea, a farewell to how they used to be – and then Foggy invited them for coffee. They were sitting at a corner table in a hipster café not far from Foggy and Marci's place. "No more secrets." 

"I can't tell you everything about what I do," Matt said. "It could put you all in danger. It could ruin your lives."

 _And most of those things_ , Matt thought but didn't say out loud, _you wouldn't want to hear in the first place._

"Keeping us in the dark is what will put us in danger," Karen countered.

Well, she wasn't wrong.

Foggy cleared his throat. "Karen and I spoke about it," and it stung only a little, that Karen and Foggy now had conversations important for their future solely between themselves, "and we've agreed that if you're unwilling to offer us full disclosure, your role in this firm will be limited to low-stakes cases that won't get overturned and won't get us all in trouble when you inevitably get caught and subsequently disbarred."

"All in together or not at all," Karen added quietly and both of them focused on Matt, awaiting his reaction.

Matt wanted to bristle, to huff, to point out just how much danger they'd be inviting into their lives if he were to be completely honest with them. He didn't. They already knew. They'd just survived Fisk's all-out attack on all of them, and the only reason why that happened was that Matt trusted them, trusted them with what he knew, trusted them to do their part. They'd survived because they worked together. And the one thing that caused their breakup the last time were all the lies. He shouldn't be surprised that this would be their one deal-or-no-deal condition.

And he wasn't.

"Alright," Matt said. "Full disclosure."

***

But he never told them about the hallucinations. He'd hoped they would go away on their own, and when they didn't, he accepted them as part of who he was now, just life's new way of screwing with him.

They weren't even that frequent anymore. They – always in the form of Fisk, _always_ , perhaps a dark mirror to his own self – appeared when he was nervous or stressed, and he'd got good at ignoring them. Was able to do that most of the time.

But not always.

Matt dodges one of the crime boss' henchmen tried throwing his way. Buff Old Spice growls in frustration over missing his target, again, and goes to grab a knife that was strapped to his ankle. Matt jumps up, bounces off the nearest wall and kicks it out of Buff Old Spice's hand, noting with some satisfaction the sound of a wrist snapping. Oh, _so sorry_.

Buff Old Spice howls in pain and bends in half, it's pretty clear that he's out of the fight – unless his self-preservation instinct is even worse than Matt's or his salary is way better than it has any right to be.

Stocky Onions reappears behind his softly crying associate, this time wielding a pipe. Oh, come on. He moves closer to Matt, swinging the pipe around and laughing like crazy. Matt's dropped him two times already, he should not be up. 

"Round three?" Matt hits him and his fist connects with Stocky Onion's nose. Why. Punch. Won't he. Punch. Just. Punch. Stay. Punch. Down. Pu--

Stocky Onion catches his fist and pulls Matt closer to him. He reeks of sweat and blood now in addition to the smell of fried onions, which on its own is a terrible smell on anyone who isn't Foggy.

Matt's younger, more agile and better trained, but Stocky Onion is taller and more powerfully built. His size is his only advantage and, unfortunately for Matt, he knows how to use it. He swings his pipe and manages to catch Matt's shoulder with it before Matt knocks it out of his hand. In close quarters hand-to-hand, Stocky Onion's weight slows him down and Matt finally trips him as they close up on the staircase. Stocky Onion comes down with a _thud_ and a moan, and Matt barely feels any guilt as he kicks the hand he's been trying to sneak into a pocket, for good measure. "Stay. Down."

"Is this how the hero of Hell's Kitchen acts now?"

Fisk's voice stops Matt dead in his tracks. _You're not real_ , he thinks. _You're not real, you're not--_ "You're not real."

Fisk laughs. "Merely a manifestation of your worst instincts, Matthew."

"Leave me alone."

"That's impossible. We're not dissimilar, Matthew."

"I am _nothing_ like you," Matt hisses at what he, logically, knows is empty air. He must miss the sound of Buff Old Spice coming, but he can smell him, and he whips around to face him just as Buff Old Spice's shoulder collides with his chest and the goon pushes him backwards. Matt stumbles and loses his balance, topples down the stairs and hits his head on the staircase landing, all to the soundtrack of Buff Old Spice's curses and howls of laughter.

_Thud._

***

He's not sure what happens next, but when he comes to it, he's still lying at the bottom of the stairs and Buff Old Spice and his friend are not there. It's not common for criminals to pass an opportunity to off an enemy; perhaps Buff Old Spice didn't think him dangerous enough to warrant that. Perhaps he was considered a mere distraction, something annoying that made their business that night inconvenient. Perhaps they just didn't have any guns on them.

An insult to the already sustained injury, to potentially owe one's life to those two idiots.

Matt groans as he pulls himself into a sitting position. He palms his chest where Buff Old Spice rammed it with his shoulder. Nothing broken or cracked there, that's good. No serious injuries sustained during his fall down the stairs either. Perhaps there is a merciful God after all, he'd hate to have to call Foggy or Karen in the morning only to tell them that he's too hurt to come in. They worried enough.

He touches the back of his head and hisses. He smells no blood but it _hurts_ , he feels the beginnings of a nasty headache. Possible concussion, but his skull appears not to be cracked. Little things, Matt, focus on the good little things.

He props himself up against the wall and stands up, a little unsteadily, but fine. Order of business: home, painkillers, maybe call Maggie. He winces. No, let's not call Maggie. She'd ask if he were bleeding out or dying, to which he'd have to reply – truthfully – that no, he wasn't. To that she'd say that she's busy tonight, that some kid or other is sick or suffering and that while Matt is... important to her, those kids are her _job_. Perhaps she'd offer to come and check on him later the next day.

God, he missed Claire. He never got round to informing her of not being dead anymore. He's not even sure if she's in New York. He's heard some bad stuff about Luke Cage.

So. Home, painkillers. Bed.

Matt walks out of the building, one hand still pressed to the wall, the other pressed between his eyes. Son of a bitch. Foggy was absolutely right, he needed to invest in a new helmet. Surely Melvin was not the only person in the city capable of making him one.

***

Matt goes to bed with a splitting headache. He wakes up _blind_.

***

When he wakes up and opens his eyes, there's nothing there. And of course, he's blind, the darkness is not surprising, it's not like he sees anything on any other day, but he does have his 'world on fire', and he regrets using that phrase to explain it to Claire and Foggy, it wasn't helpful, it wasn't informative, it in no way conveyed to them what his normal was really like. His normal were impressions, an imaginary world built on smells and sounds coming from all around.

He can still smell his apartment, his detergent on the pillow, the rotting apple in the kitchen, the scented candles that Fran loved to burn. But there's nothing more.

Matt sits up on the bed and screams. At least, he thinks he screams. He can't hear a damn thing. Great. There goes his plan for the day. He realizes that he should be more spooked by this, but he also remembers getting shot in the head by Frank Castle and he remembers losing his hearing then. Back then it was what, two hours, three hours tops of complete silence and complete darkness. And then it was back, just in time for Karen to stop by.

He hopes Karen will stop by this time too. Or Foggy. He doesn't have to hide anymore, they genuinely want to know about his injuries. Or perhaps they don't. They think his brain is turning to mush from being hit on the head too much.

He takes a deep breath, one, two, then exhales. Just stay calm. Two hours and you'll be back to normal. He moves to the side of the bed and swings his legs off it. Floor, okay. It would be a good idea to call Foggy. Not sure how he should do it, but he's resourceful. His phone, where did he... Ah. Kitchen, counter. 

Should have taken Foggy up on his offer to gift him Google Home for his birthday. Maybe he could still request it for Christmas. It would have come in handy right about now, Matt could just stay in bed while yelling, 'Hey Google, text Foggy that he needs to come over'. What was wrong with him, why didn't he want it? It was a bloody brilliant invention.

Matt slowly gets up and balances upright. Alright, bedroom to kitchen, it's not far. His cane...? Shit, somewhere under the stairs. Well. He outstretches his arms in hopes that they'll help him not knock anything down. Bedroom to kitchen. Bed to bedroom door, how many steps was that?

When he first moved into this apartment, Foggy insisted on walking him around and counted their steps aloud to give Matt an indication of how spaced things were, how far certain pieces of furniture. He worried about Matt bumping into things almost as much as he worried about Matt falling down uncovered manholes. That was before he knew Matt could sense where everything was. At the time, Foggy didn't know and Matt thought he knew better, so he paid little attention to Foggy's numbers.

Mistakes of youth.

Another deep breath. It was six steps. Six. Six? Yes, definitely six. With his arms still outstretched Matt takes the first one very slowly. Then another. And a third one, this time faster. The fourth one, almost at his normal pace. Fifth one and--

 _Fuck!_ he says, rubbing his already throbbing head. Well, it's five steps to the bedroom door. All he has to do now is traverse the living room to get to the kitchen counter. He laughs. No problem, right? There are only two armchairs, a coffee table and a couch between him and his prize.

It's more or less four steps to the armchair in a straight line. About seven from the bedroom door to the stairs leading to the rooftop. It'd probably be safer if he went around the armchairs.

Matt clicks his tongue. Well, have to try.

***

Three times he trips but catches his balance and one time he trips and falls face first onto the floor before he reaches the kitchen. It's embarrassing to admit, but he tripped and fell not over the armchair or the sofa or even the rug, he tripped and fell over his own black outfit which he took off when he got back at night and just left in a pile next to the couch, with the intention to clean it up in the morning before work.

Foggy would never let him live that one down if he knew.

Matt's not going to tell him.

He finds his phone on the kitchen island, and he's fairly certain he knocked a couple of things over trying to find it. Hopefully nothing made of glass, he'd hate to accidentally cut himself on top of everything else. Alright. The phone is... there. Button on the right, that should pull up the face recognition. Matt waits what seems an appropriate amount of time before starting to touch things on the screen. Bottom left corner, that should be his contact list. First position from top, Foggy. Double tap, calling Foggy. Hopefully.

He counts in his head, one, two, three, four... Foggy usually answers after four rings. _Foggy_ , Matt says and hopes it's not too loud or too quiet or too mumbled, _I had a little accident. Could you--could you please come over?_

Double tap towards the middle of the screen. Disconnect the call. Matt lets out his breath in short puffs. Nothing else to do but wait. He pockets his phone – not sure why, it's not like he'd be able to answer any incoming calls – and inches to the other side of the island, where the kitchen table is standing with the chairs next to it. He's not going to brave the living room again. He wasn't even counting the steps, damn, he should have done that.

He palms the chair and pulls it out, tries to sit on it and ends up on his ass on the floor, barely having managed not to hit his head again, this time on the side of the seat. Not a good idea. He gets to his knees and over to the wall, safer with his back to it. At least that way he's not going to bump into anything.

He feels like screaming. And because no one came to check on him when he did that in his bedroom – and therefore he can assume that all his neighbours are out – he lets himself do it.

***

His internal clock is far from perfect, but he's sure it's been over two hours. It must have been more than two hours. Matt snaps his fingers and hears nothing. Everything is still dark and quiet.

He closes his eyes and tries to fight the rising panic. He puts his head between his knees and wills himself to remain calm. It will get better. He'll get his hearing back. It will get better, it will get better, it _will_ get better--

 _Shit_.

***

The tap on his shoulder startles him and he instinctively throws a punch. He assumes he missed when his fist doesn't connect with anything. Then again, perhaps he dreamt that tap. Or hallucinated.

The squeeze he _didn't_ imagine or hallucinate. The hand squeezing his shoulder stays there, lingers long enough for him to catch it. He holds the wrist and sniffs – he hopes his sense of smell is not going to go next – and the person to whom said wrist belongs wraps their fingers around his, presses into the pulse point.

Fried onions, kale and mango shake, Marci's Chanel perfume. Foggy, oh God, _Foggy_.

He's no doubt saying something. Matt tugs at his wrist, silently willing him to sit down on the floor next to him. Foggy does. Matt feels his back hit the wall and then Foggy is sliding down it and onto the floor right on Matt's left-hand side. They sit awkwardly for a moment, with Foggy still saying words that Matt is incapable of understanding, and then. Foggy puts his arm around Matt shoulders and tugs him close. Matt puts up no resistance and lets himself be drawn into this loose embrace; he curls into Foggy so that his head rests against Foggy's chest, under his chin. It's not the most comfortable of positions and Matt's neck is going to have a lot of complaints later, but it allows him to feel the vibrations of Foggy's throat when he speaks and the slow and steady rise of his chest as he breathes. And in a world devoid of two senses, that is his best comfort.

They stay like that for at least an hour before Foggy taps him again. Matt nuzzles into Foggy's shirt – lilac and vanilla, Marci must be in charge of their laundry now – as a way of saying, yes, I'm listening.

Foggy sneaks his free hand between Matt's bent torso and raised knees and touches Matt's stomach, once, twice. Then he grabs one of Matt's hands and makes a circular motion with it, like scooping, before raising it to Matt's mouth.

_Did you eat?_

The last thing he ate was a leftover bagel that he found in their office kitchen before leaving work the day before, so Matt shakes his head 'no'. Foggy taps his knees this time and then tugs at Matt's wrist, pointing upwards. He lets go of Matt's shoulders and Matt can feel him rise. Once up, he tugs again, wanting Matt to get up too.

Matt lets Foggy lead him back into the kitchen. Once there, Foggy deposits him on the chair that Matt had unsuccessfully tried to sit on earlier and uses Matt's hands to make a T sign. T. Time. 

_Wait_.

Matt has nothing better to do and nothing but time. Foggy puts his hands palms-down on the table and moves away. Matt wonders if Foggy's raiding his fridge and despairing at its emptiness. He winces. He planned on doing shopping today after work, but that's not going to happen now.

 _I have cereal in one of the cupboards_ , he says.

A moment later, Foggy's back, and he uses Matt's right hand to give them thumbs up. Okay, alright. He got that. Then, a finger is pressed to Matt's lips. Got that, but too loud.

Well, sorry.

A spoon is placed in Matt's hand and Foggy guides it towards the bowl. It takes a few tries for Matt to flawlessly make the bowl-spoon-mouth trip, but spilling cereal seems less humiliating than being fed, so he'll take that. When he's done eating, he pushes the bowl away. He frowns when it doesn't disappear.

 _Foggy_?

Nothing. He couldn't have left. Could he? No, not Foggy. He wouldn't. Matt tries not to think of the time Foggy _did_ leave. Don't panic.

_Foggy!_

Two fingers at his lips this time. Way too loud. Matt nods and the fingers disappear. Instead, Foggy's leg bumps Matt's, he must have pulled the other chair close. Foggy presses his leg against Matt's and doesn't move, and it's funny that that's all it takes, but works wonders on the levels of Matt's anxiety.

Foggy pushes something into Matt's hands. Long, rectangular... Matt sucks in a breath. The Braille display. So that's why Foggy left, he had to go and fetch it from Matt's bedroom. Letters start forming under Matt's fingertips and he quickly reads them. 

_What happened?_

He rolls his eyes. The most important question. 

_Was pushed down the stairs_ , Matt says, hoping that his voice is steady and that Foggy cannot hear how unsettled he is by what's happening, _hit my head a little. Lost hearing. It'll come back, same thing happened with Frank Castle_.

He doesn't specify that it happened after Frank shot him in the head. Foggy wouldn't appreciate that, he still gets angry when he remembers that.

The display refreshes. _How are you feeling?_

_Not bad, loss of hearing aside. Did you get my call?_

_No_ , appears under Matt's fingers. _No-show at work. Was worried._

_What time is it?_

_12:49._

Matt's guess would be that it's been six hours since he woke up both blind and deaf. That's... not good. The last time this happened, he was fine after six hours. Now he has milk on his sweatpants.

 _Gonna stay here_ , Foggy writes him. And then, _Karen at the office._

 _Probably most suited to actually running it_ , Matt laughs.

_Ha ha ha._

Matt winces. He has no idea if that was a genuine laugh that Foggy tried to express or if he was being sarcastic. Then something else occurs to him. _Foggy, how are you using this?_

 _Typing on phone_ , Foggy replies, which explains why his answers come so slowly. _It's exhausting._

Matt nods. He can imagine. _Foggy_ , he asks, _take me to bed_.

Any other day they would have a blast laughing at Matt's unintended double entendre, but this is not any other day. Today Matt screwed up big time and the situation was too tense and too dire to be making dumb sex jokes.

Foggy helps him get up and leads him to the bedroom. Once there, he helps Matt get onto the bed and then fusses over, fluffing the pillow and pulling the covers tightly over him. Matt fully expects him to leave after he's done and to wait outside in the living room; to his surprise the empty side of the bed dips under Foggy's weight and Foggy settles in beside him.

Matt shivers when he feels Foggy press a hand to his back, but settles when Foggy starts rubbing it in soothing circles. _It's alright_ , it seems to say, _everything's alright_.

***

When Matt wakes up later in the day, everything around him is still quiet, and the space behind him on the bed is empty, but warm. At least nine hours now and still nothing. Shit, perhaps he really should chance a visit at a hospital this time.

He stretches and gets up. Foggy's side was still warm, he couldn't have got up long ago. He extends one arm in front of him, to detect potential obstacles, and starts moving towards the door. This time, having remembered that it was five steps, not six, he gets to the living room without incident. Small things, Matt, small things.

_Foggy?_

Someone comes over and gently takes his arm, but that's not Foggy and Matt recoils. The hand tries to grab him again, but he twists out, he twists out and stumbles and falls down, and suddenly there are _two_ pairs of hands on him, Foggy's and someone else's. Small, so a woman's, but he can smell no Elizabeth Arden, which means it's not Karen. It's not Claire, either.

The Braille display is thrust into his hands and Matt looks for an explanation. _Maggie_ , it says, and a moment later, _Relax_.

Ah.

The smaller pair of hands touches his head, the fingers working very gently in his hair, trying to find cuts or bruises. Then, over his ears, at the base of his skull. They withdraw as quickly as they appeared, and Foggy helps him get up and takes him to the couch. He doesn't sit down with him; he squeezes his shoulder and then leaves, and Matt gets the impression that Foggy is talking with Maggie and that they are talking about it. Which would be mortifying on a normal day, and today he can't even tell what they're saying.

His life exactly.

The couch dips on his right, but the weight is too small for it to be Foggy. Maggie sits down and takes one of his hands between hers. _What are you doing here?_ he asks.

It takes Maggie longer than Foggy to reply, but eventually the display finds its way back into his hands. _You called me yesterday_. Refresh. _I was worried._

Funny, he doesn't remember calling her. He remembers thinking about it and deciding against it. _Thanks_ , he says nonetheless.

The couch dips on his left, too. Foggy, now. He takes one of Matt's hands and puts it on top of a hot cardboard box. Matt feels the display refresh again; he snatches the hand back and reads. _Ordered pizza_ , that must be Foggy talking now, _it's easy food_.

Matt turns his head to the left and smiles, hopefully in Foggy's direction. Foggy opens the pizza box and helps Matt take a slice. He even got Hawaiian which he normally hates and never passes the opportunity to tell Matt that he's weird for enjoying pineapple and tomato sauce mixed together.

Matt grins. _Told you I'd turn you into a Hawaiian fan._

***

Maggie eats the pizza with them and leaves about an hour later, when it's become clear that there is nothing for her to do.

Matt's smile drops after the door closes behind her. It's been ten hours. _Foggy_ , he says, _what if it doesn't come back?_

Foggy bends and presses a kiss to the top of Matt's head, and Matt can only guess what that was supposed to mean.

***

"--spital."

Matt's head snaps up. He's back in his bedroom – having decided that bedrest is the best they can do, Foggy dragged him there about two hours ago – and he's _certain_ he just heard Foggy through the door that Foggy left ajar.

"Foggy?" he calls out and feels _elated_ at the sound of his own voice.

"I'll call you back," Foggy says to whomever he was talking to, and hearing _his_ voice makes Matt even happier.

Footsteps on the wooden floor, the door creaking open, Foggy padding on the bedroom carpet, Foggy's heart beating slightly faster than normal, but not too fast, must be low-level anxiety or it was just because of the person he was talking to. Foggy reaches out to touch his arm, delicate and considerate. 

Matt grins. "I can hear you hover over me, Fog."

Foggy stops with his hand outstretched, fingers a hair's breadth away from Matt's arm. "Is your hearing back," he asks, "or are you just fucking with me?"

"I don't think Marci would be too happy about the fucking," Matt replies.

He hears Foggy exhale. He _hears_ him. "Jesus, Matt," he says. "Maggie and I were just planning to take you to the hospital, even against your will."

"Told you it would come back." He thought his hearing would be back some twelve hours ago, but what was that saying, better late than never? Yes, that one.

Foggy shakes his head. "You're impossible," he tells Matt. And Matt can hear _everything_ : the fondness in his tone, the exasperation, the undercurrent of worry, he can hear Foggy's heart slow down to its normal rhythm. And beyond them, he can hear Fran in her apartment, he can hear police sirens down the street, he can hear a drunk swearing at the corner.

"We'll need to get a doctor to take a look at you," Foggy continues. " _That_ was not normal."

Here we go again. He'll never give up. "Foggy, it's fine. It's fine now."

"Fine," Foggy repeats flatly. " _Fine._ "

"All back to normal. I can even tell you what soap opera Fran is watching."

"You just spent the whole day _deaf_ in both ears," Foggy says, and his voice is dangerously level and quiet. "The least you could do, for your own health and my sake, is go to a goddamn doctor so that they can make sure your ears are not permanently damaged."

"It's happened before," Matt points out, "so it's nothing new."

Foggy throws his hands up in surrender. "I give up. I think I preferred you deaf, it made it impossible for you to argue back in the dumbest manner possible."

"That's such a nice thing to say, Foggy," Matt deadpans. He extends his hand. "Thank you, though. For coming, and for staying with me. You have no idea how much that means to me."

Foggy sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment. He lets it out slowly as he takes Matt's hand for the last time today and squeezes. "Always, Matty."

"And thank you for the pizza."

"It was absolutely _disgusting_."

Matt laughs. Oh, Foggy. "You should probably go," he tells him. "Marci must be worried."

Foggy waves a hand. "I texted her earlier, told her we had an emergency. I could stay, if you want me to."

Matt weighs his options and shakes his head 'no'. "Go, I'll see you tomorrow at the office."

Foggy nods. If he lingers in the bedroom doorway a little longer than strictly necessary, neither of them mentions it. Once he hears the front door close behind Foggy, Matt falls back onto his pillow and presses clenched fists into his eyes. The headache is back.

"That certainly was interesting," Fisk comments from somewhere on his left.

Matt clenches his teeth, pulls the pillow over his head, and prays for silence.


End file.
